


this (blood soaked) mistake of ours

by lincesque



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, Dark, Gen, post season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincesque/pseuds/lincesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will was never the monster, but they are right to fear him now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this (blood soaked) mistake of ours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nowwheresmynut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowwheresmynut/gifts).



> Prompt: _An empowered will meeting (after an escape?) hannibal post season 1. In this scenario, I'd enjoy a non-romantic, realistic approach compatible with the character development that went on on S1 (i suppose i'm talking fics here). Anyways, I love Will's BAMF side._
> 
> Hello nowwheresmynut! I don't know if this is what you wanted but yay? I tried. I tried. I hope you like it!

_**-start-** _

 

 

"I don't find you that interesting," Will says, offhand, dismissive - it is not the first time someone has found him an intriguing puzzle and it is definitely not likely to be the last.  
  
(This is his first mistake.)  
  
"Oh," Dr. Lecter murmurs, tone low, amusement curled around each and every syllable. The knife and fork in his hands clink gently against his chipped china plate when he lays them down. He looks up and meets Will's eyes, holding his gaze and there is something that flickers through his neutral features, something dark and dangerous cutting through the mask of stillness for the briefest of moments. "You will."  
  
Will is the first to look away.  
  
(This is his second mistake.)

  
  
*

 

They place him in jail, surrounded by concrete and metal bars.  
  
This is all for his protection, they say. Will sees the lies in the tense line of their jaw, the twitch of their hand, in the way that no one looks him in the eyes anymore.  
  
(He has lost more than his freedom - he has lost his rights, his justice, his meaning. If they fear him now when they had never feared him before, if they do not trust him now then -)  
  
Jack visits him once, at the very beginning. The air between them is tense and uneasy and Will keeps his distance, his restless feet taking him from one end of the jail cell to the other. It's four and a half steps, he counts, again and again.  
  
Jack, in contrast, stands perfectly still, hands fisted loosely at his sides. There's a heaviness in his features, an exhaustion that is deep and pained. Will is more interested in the silver watch on Jack's wrist though. It ticks over the quarter hour, then through to half past. The minute hand is almost back on the twelve when Jack finally shifts and that tiny movement is what brings Will to a standstill.  
  
"I shouldn't have," is all Jack says in the end, just before he turns to leave.  
  
Will wonders at the many different ways the words could be finished:  
  
 _I shouldn't have pushed you_  
  
 _I shouldn't have made you_  
  
 _I shouldn't have let you_  
  
 _I shouldn't have trusted you_  
  
But Will only has the first three words: 'I shouldn't have'. The rest is all guesses and suppositions and fanciful imaginings.  
  
(He knows which it truly is though, because he is Will Graham and what he has is pure empathy and there is no action he cannot see the motivation to, there are no words spoken he cannot trace back to its roots in fledgling thoughts.)  
  
Jack's footsteps echo in the concrete prison that Will is left to rot in, alone. He is not forgotten - never forgotten because Freddie Lounds and her compatriots will never let that happen - but he is muzzled, thrown into the darkest corner cell to ponder his fate.  
  
They leave him alone in jail, surrounded by only concrete and metal bars and think that it is enough to keep him leashed, a predator that they are so sure they have de-fanged and de-clawed. They go to sleep at night thinking that they are safe, that they have finally caught and caged the monster who has been haunting their dreams.  
  
They can sleep only because they do not understand that Will is a predator forced into the role - a square peg with the corners broken and chipped away just enough to slide through a circular hole - and they lie safe from the knowledge that the monster, the real one, is still there lurking on the very edges of their minds, their dreams.  
  
(They know not of how the monster - sated for the time being - lies in wait for that perfect moment.)

 

*

  
  
"How could you?" a woman cries. She is faceless, features a blurred mess and her wrists and ankles are bloodied stumps. She follows him, crawling on her elbows and knees, her wailing words tinted with the blue of disbelief and the bright violet of despair.  
  
"How could you?" a man screams. His throat gapes and each individual vocal chord vibrates visibly with each breathe he takes, each word he speaks. He follows him, the blood dripping down his chest, smeared and pounded into the ground by the trample of feet.  
  
"How could you?" the children whisper. They sit side by side, hand in hand, blue eyes blank, faces splattered with mud and gore and the barest speckling of blood. Their hearts beat slow and sluggish, caged, visible only where the skin on their chest has been peeled away to reveal the glaring white of bone.  
  
He turns and walks, then runs - faster and faster - but the words chase after him, slicing into skin, burrowing into flesh and striking against bone.  
  
 _How could you?_  
  
"It's not me," he says, begs, pleads. "Not me. Not me."  
  
And then Dr. Lecter - Hannibal - stands before him, dark eyes alight with an expression that he can read finally with breathless ease.  
  
"Will," Hannibal says and the smile that curves over his thin lips is written with nothing but avarice and gluttony. Hannibal leans down, down, all the way down until his words are spoken directly into his ear, into his mind, into his heart.  
  
"It has always been you."  
  
And Will wakes up even as he drowns in an endless breath of his own lifeblood.

  
  
*

_Case number four. Arthur Cretenzo. Three counts of murder._  
  
 _Case number fifty-eight. Maureen Fray. Two counts of assisted murder. One count of assault._  
  
 _Case number thirteen. Victor Drake. Sixteen counts of rape. Three counts of murder._  
  
 _Case number -_  
  
The list is almost endless and Will remembers each and every one of them - filed neatly away inside his mind. Each detail, each aspect of the case: the evidence, the forensics reports, the victims, the methodology, the psychology - he knows them all.  
  
If anyone had ever given any real thought to Will and his abilities - instead of merely taking them for given, using them as they willed - then they would have feared, even if they had no reason to.  
  
Will walks away from prison and there is no one to stop him. He slides on the shirt and the trousers he had been wearing the day he had been taken into custody and leaves nothing behind, except for a neatly folded orange jumpsuit.  
  
Before, there had been nothing to fear, but now, after everything, Will has nothing left to lose. He gambles it all on one last bet.  
  
And this time, like every single time before, Will plays to win.  
  
(He has never dropped a case, has never left anything unsolved, he has never lost. He does not plan to begin now.)

  
  
*

  
  
Alana had come to visit him twice, beautiful and flawless as ever, her heels had clicked against the concrete floor as she made her way to Will.  
  
The first time, she had stood quietly, like Jack had. But Will, he hadn't been able to help the way he had gravitated towards her - standing pressed against the bars almost, hands curled around the metal separating them.  
  
She had made small talk the first time, mentioning Winston and his other dogs, giving him updates. As stilted and awkward as the words were, Will had been grateful. Alana had been the first to treat him like a person, the first to call him _friend_ and mean it. She had been the first to take his hand and not tell him that it would be 'alright' or that things would be 'just fine' because she had never, ever lied to him.  
  
Will had let her talk and he had listened.  
  
Then she had cried that second time.  
  
"I'm sorry," she had said.  
  
"You believe that I'm innocent?" Will had asked.  
  
Alana had had no answer for him, only staring at him with sad, hurt eyes, but Will had slept easier that night, the dreams - the ceaseless nightmares - kept at bay for one brief night.  
  
He had woken early the next day, feeling rested for the first time in far too long. Will had lain in bed, watching the tiny ray of sun visible from his slit of a window.  
  
Then he had packed his meager belongings and left without a single backwards glance.

  
  
*

  
  
(In the end, it is terribly easy. A visit back to his own home - the last place anyone would think to look - and one single phone call is all it takes. He slides the keys into the car, stolen of course, and the engine starts with a quiet purr. The gun is a steady weight in his jacket pocket the entire trip.)

  
  
*

  
  
"Did you, Will?" Hannibal says his name with that same light touch of amusement and the faintest hint of fondness buried somewhere deep beneath. His smile is the same, the barest curve of his thin lips, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening with the expression. "Did you find me interesting in the end?"  
  
Will meets his gaze, head held high. His breathing is smooth, easy and his arm perfectly steady when he raises it, gun resting easily within the comfortable grip of his fingers.  
  
"No," Will says, voice soft but there is that edge of cold hardness that has been honed into a whisper sharp blade by Hannibal's gentle machinations. His finger curls over the trigger.  
  
The shot is startling loud and the recoil strong, but Will doesn't flinch - he is prepared for it, feet planted firmly apart on the ground. He exhales and clicks the safety back on. He licks at dry lips and runs the back of his hand over his cheek. His hand comes away sticky, smeared with blood and he swallows the taste of copper on his tongue.  
  
Will tilts his head and thinks that he should feel regret or anger or even relief. But in reality, he feels very little.  
  
"No," he says again, words addressed to a man who exists no longer, even as the lingering wails of sirens grow louder and louder around him.  
  
"I don't suppose I did."  
  
(Will never makes the third mistake.)  
  


  
_**-end-** _


End file.
